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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26208130">catoptrophobia</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePrincePeach/pseuds/ThePrincePeach'>ThePrincePeach</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The corpse in the corner begins to weep at what was taken from him. [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Five Nights at Freddy's</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Death, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Haunting, Past Character Death, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Shock, Trauma, may need more tags in the future, phone guy and phone dude are brothers for me</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:20:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,606</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26208130</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePrincePeach/pseuds/ThePrincePeach</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott has a fear of mirrors. </p>
<p>Paul doesn't breathe anymore. </p>
<p>Their hands grip tightly to the others. </p>
<p>Scott has a fear of mirrors,</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The corpse in the corner begins to weep at what was taken from him. [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815121</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>catoptrophobia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His eyes hadn’t left the coffin since he arrived, leaning back in the wooden pew with his hands folded in his lap. Despite the numb feeling, Scott’s fingers itched to fidget. His brother was in that box, what was left of him at least. It felt wrong to say it, but it would feel worse to lie about it, he had no one to lie to about this anyway. He never spoke the words out loud and yet they burned like bile in the back of his throat. On a table set against the wall were display boards Scott was sure he saw at the dollar store, photos carefully pinned into the foam to avoid puncturing the photos themselves. The synagogue was filled with people and Scott didn’t know over half of them. The stories they told of his brother, he was starting to think that most of them were lying just to make his brother seem like a greater person than he was. These stories felt wrong. Each story painted his brother in a completely different light, but the resounding chuckle or weep in the room seemed to Scott that the crowd was agreeing with the story’s facts. </p>
<p>Scott started to feel somewhat betrayed that he didn’t know his brother as much as he thought he did. But betrayed by who? These people who claimed to know his brother? His father for not bothering to call Scott to tell him his missing brother was found dead, until two days before the funeral? Or perhaps Scott was betrayed that at that point in time, his brother, Paul, felt like the biggest stranger in the room.</p>
<p>He felt like everyone in the room was a filthy fucking liar. Himself included. </p>
<p>He had nothing to say as he watched the padded wooden box sink into the ground and his father wept beside him. His father earlier mumbled, tearfully, how Paul was in a better place now. He wasn’t, Scott muttered, he was still here. His father took it as a statement of grief and held his hand. The weather seemed too nice for a funeral, too sunny with big puffy clouds floating lazily against the perfectly blue sky. Scott’s eyes rolled up and stared at the sky, wanting to believe that his brother was up there somewhere with mama. He knew it wasn’t true but it’s nice to believe that sometimes. It’s much nicer to think that he was somewhere better than a box under the mud becoming worm food. His father took the liberty of making the funeral as traditional as possible, Paul was always as devout as his father. Scott, despite not following the worship anymore, still wore the kippah to cover his head and prayed alongside the family and friends and rabbi. Their funerals didn’t want any chemicals in the body, nor an open casket. Scott was partially relieved that he didn’t have to see what was in there. He didn’t want to think that his brother was in there. He didn’t want to think of what was inside it. </p>
<p>“So what do you think is inside of it?” </p>
<p>“A dead thing!” </p>
<p>“Scottie…” </p>
<p>The boys had found a box deep in the woods during a family camping trip, they went for a week nearly every season, but two weeks every summer. It was a family tradition and without fail every year, they went to the family cabin in a patch of woods their father owned. Even when mama died, they went – and spent time on memorializing her at the cabin. Since then, they visited her gravestone when they visited the cabin. Travelling past the gravestone to find sticks for the fireplace, the young boys found a box lost among the tall grass and bushes. It wore a heavy lock and a thick leather strap around it. Scott was crouched down by it, poking the lock with a stick previously gathered. Paul stood nearby with the bundle in his arms, glancing around nervously. </p>
<p>“W-We, we should, uh, we should leave it a-alone, Scottie,” Paul mumbled, “It could be, be dangerous.” </p>
<p>“That means it’s cool,” Scott grinned, showing off the gap where a tooth was missing, then turned his attention back to the box, “We should try to open it!” </p>
<p>“Noooo!” </p>
<p>“What if it’s a treasure chest?” Scott offered as he jabbed the stick tip into the lock, “Like pirate treasure!” </p>
<p>“Pirates never came to, to Utah, Scottie…” </p>
<p>“Oh, but they went to Pittsburgh to play baseball, right?” </p>
<p>“… Y…. Yes? What?”</p>
<p>The boys were silent for a moment before Scott waved him off and poked at the lock again, mumbling, “It’s a sports thing, you wouldn’t get it.” Paul tilted his head a bit and stared, confusedly, at his brother still jabbing at the lock. “Maybe we should take it to dad, he can pick locks!” Paul seemed to agree with such an idea and nodded after juggling his thoughts on the matter as well as a young boy could. He offered a smile to his brother and got one back, the brothers each moving to different sides of the box. Their little hands grabbed at the leather straps. </p>
<p>“R-Ready?” </p>
<p>“Yeah!” </p>
<p>“Three… Two…” </p>
<p>The box lifted on a mutual one, a loud, metallic, snapping noise ringing out mere seconds later. Birds in the trees fluttered off as a sharp screech split through the deafening silence. </p>
<p>Bear traps were hateful devices. </p>
<p>Scott stared silently at the carpet, hallow eyes following the interwoven designs and patterns just to keep from staring in one place too long. He blinked. It hurt. He sighed deeply as his hands reached up, balls of his palms rubbing at his eyes to try and rid himself of the irritation. He paused at the sight of rigid scars long since healed over his arm, his fingertips tracing over it slowly. Some cruel joke, he remembered, visualizing metal teeth clamped around their arms. Which one screamed again? It was so hard to remember. He didn’t want to remember. </p>
<p>A warm hand moved and held his shoulder, giving it a familiar squeeze. Scott slowly looked up, seeing Auntie look down at him. He didn’t understand shiva, but he was glad to have someone looking after his dad during this time. Her arms wrapped around his neck and squeezed him tightly, himself relenting into her hug and leaning into it. </p>
<p>“I’m so sorry, Silus,” </p>
<p>“My name is Scott,” </p>
<p>She winced and looked down at him, her hand over his hair. She asked in a quiet tone, “Since when?” Scott stared up at her and then looked away, his arms slowly wrapping around his chest in a self-hug defence. Since mom died? Since mom turned into a religious nut? Saint Silus was a better man, following Paul the apostle. How ironic. Scott couldn’t come up with an answer better than that, and not wanting to insult her dead sister, he simply brushed it off and stood up. </p>
<p>“I need some air,” He walked past her quickly, refusing to raise his eyes from the carpet. No one looked his way as he strode into the hallway, his hand still over his eye to blink away tears wanting to come out. She said nothing as he walked away. He passed by a pair of doors, then paused as he glanced back at them. He frowned. </p>
<p>On the left door, engraved on the front was a messy ‘S’. </p>
<p>On the right, more careful, was a ‘P’. </p>
<p>His fingers left his eye and slowly, carefully, flinching back at any noise; traced the bottom of the ‘P’, whispering to himself ever so silently, </p>
<p>“If I knock, will you answer?” He chuckled sadly and pulled his hand away, looking back down the hallway. Without a second thought, his hand returned to the door and knocked ever so gently. “One, two, three, it will, always, be me.” The man stared at his knuckles as his smile dropped back into a sorrowful frown and yet again, his hand pulled back. The idea was silly, it was stupid to an extent. He stepped away from the door slowly. It was a childish notion the boys held dear; knock three times, say the rhyme, and hear the right response. A secret code.</p>
<p>“Three,” came the soft whisper behind him.</p>
<p>He froze. </p>
<p>“Two,” came the whisper, a bit closer, a bit braver.</p>
<p>Scott felt his blood turn to ice, freezing him to the core, he could feel the frost gathering at his fingertips and turning them to ice cycles. He didn’t dare turn around. </p>
<p>“One,” came the whisper, even closer. </p>
<p>He couldn’t turn around, he didn’t want to see it, he didn’t want to see it. It wasn’t real. Not real not real not real not real not real. It wasn’t there. Nothing was there. His eyes slowly, reluctantly, turned to the corners of his eyes and saw the hallway mirror. It was covered up with an old blanket, yet the very bottom was revealed. He could see his own dark form in the middle, and something small, something pale, behind him. It was behind him. It was getting closer. It was shaking. Scott was shaking. He couldn’t look away. </p>
<p>“I know, I know,” came the whisper as it neared him, a small hand reaching out for him. Scott’s jaw hung, face turning pale, hands trembling. His heart was throbbing in his chest so hard that he believed it would break free of his chest and bounce away on the floor. The hand reached out for his back, slender fingers splaying out for him. </p>
<p>No no no no no no no nonononononononooononononono</p>
<p>“It will, always, be you.” </p>
<p>Scott’s hand snapped out and grabbed the cloth on the mirror, yanking it away fast enough to nearly knock the mirror off the wall. The cloth fell at their feet slowly, gracefully. </p>
<p>Eyes widened. </p>
<p>A gasp sounded out. </p>
<p>“Don’t scare me like that, Silus!” Paul yelled as he, dismayed, looked down at the shattered remains of his mug and warm drink pooling around them. The teen laughed and pulled off the Freddy mask worn loosely. “You know I hate that thing! You and your friends wear them too much! I-It’s really creepy!” </p>
<p>“You’re creepy,” Silus smirked as he kept the mask over the top of his head, “Hanging around the back of the library all day. Nerds don’t get dates, ya’ know.” </p>
<p>“Maybe I don’t want to date,” Paul huffed as he crouched down, cupping his hands to collect glass on the floor. “You made me break my favourite mug! How could you?” </p>
<p>“You’re the one who dropped it,” the teen shrugged, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the wall as he watched Paul pick up the pieces. “You missed one.” He gestured vaguely to the floor. Paul shot him a heated scowl and Silus laughed. “Are you that upset over a cup, Paulie? Grow up. It was just—” </p>
<p>“It was /mom’s/ mug.” </p>
<p>Silus paused, brows raising before he pulled the mask off completely. He had never heard such a tone from Paul, it shocked him too much to think of something snarky to say. Their eyes locked for a moment that felt like minutes, bleeding into hours. Silus was the first to break eye contact, turning his gaze away as he sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. He then looked down, then looked the other way – all to avoid looking down at the still glaring Paul. He frowned back at him. The lamp flickered. </p>
<p>“Stop looking at me like that.” </p>
<p>“Get some rags, you made me spill my drink.” </p>
<p>“Not my fault, not my mess.” Silus shot back. The lamp flickered again. Paul held the glass shards carefully as tears began to prick in his eyes. “You look like a little baby when you cry, it makes me look like one too.” The lamp flickered yet again. Tensions were rising. Paul stood up quickly and yelled, </p>
<p>“It’s always your fault!” The light above them began to flicker, the boys ignored it. “Everything is always your fault!” Silus glared at Paul, opening his mouth to speak but was cut off by glass being thrown back at the floor and an accusing finger jabbed at his chest. “It’s always your fault! Own up for once! You’re the coward, not me! You make /me/ look bad!” Silus slapped away his hand. </p>
<p>“Don’t touch me, dork.”</p>
<p>Paul let out another yell, of anger, of rage, and lunged for Silus. </p>
<p>Scott stared at the mirror in silence. The reflection stared back. Not his reflection, but a reflection nonetheless. His face stared back at him, his face was different, something was wrong. It wasn’t a face, it wasn’t his face, but it was his eyes staring back and his mouth shaping words that Scott could neither hear nor understand. It was a face. But it wasn’t. Scott raised his hand and the reflection followed, but something indescribable sat in place of its arm. His eyes scanned over the appendage before turning back to the eyes. The eyes bored into his own with such intensity, Scott felt himself flinch back at the raw emotion those eyes held. Inhuman feelings, human eyes. Could the reflection even be called human? The image morphed and swayed, wax melting off the candle only to be shaped back by a different artist into what they believed the candle once looked like. Still a candle, but not the right one. </p>
<p>The wall behind it was rotten and filthy, cobwebs and grime clinging to the darkened corners. Mould was creeping up the walls and blistering them in black and greys, the occasional mushroom popping out where the wallpaper was split. The reflection had mould. The mirror had mould. Everything had a layer of grime, or mould, attached to it. </p>
<p>Scott felt mould grow under his skin and squirm, mushrooms wanted to split his skin apart and spread outwards from it. His hair fell out, his teeth clattered to the floor, his eyes sunk in. He screamed. And screamed. And screamed.</p>
<p>And Paul, standing in the mirror, s c r e a m e d  b a c k. </p>
<p>A photo fell from the table and glass shattered as it landed face down onto the wood. Noel, frowning, stared at it for a moment before slowly climbing up from his chair with a sigh. He used the table to crouch down and stand back up. A family photo. He smiled tiredly as he leaned against the table. He gently brushed the broken glass onto the table and instead, with a delicate hand, pulled out the photograph itself. As per most photos, Scott stood on the left, and Paul on the right. Their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, both grinning as they used their free arms to hold up a rather large fish. Summer at the cabin, wasn’t it? </p>
<p>The older man chuckled and wandered back to the chair, sitting down back with a bit of a struggle. His thumb brushed over the freckled cheek of Scott, then the curly hair of Paul. He set the photo nearby and gave it another smile. His sister sat on the arm of the chair with her own smile, her arm draping over his shoulders. He took up her hand and squeezed it lightly. </p>
<p>“Any word from Scott?” She asked. Noel, smile dropping, shook his head. She sighed. “Maybe I set him off with the Silus thing…” </p>
<p>“Oh, he’s dealing with a lot right now, Sandy,” Noel sighed, then looked back to the photo. “He just lost his other half.” </p>
<p>They sat in silence for a moment, before Noel, quietly, added, </p>
<p>“They were twins, after all.”</p>
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